Murder on the Silk Road

by Stefanie Matteson

  “Close. It’s Sand-Buried Treasures of Desert Cathay. Or at least, that’s the working title. My publisher will probably change it. They usually do. It’s due out a year from January.”

  “Is that your luggage?” asked Marsha, nodding at the bag on the floor.

  “Yes,” he replied. “In fact, I’d better put it away,” he added, as he lifted it up into the luggage rack.

  “Then it looks as if we have a fourth still to come,” said Marsha, pointing overhead to the duffel bag. “If he or she didn’t miss the train, that is.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Peter. “Well, the more the merrier.”

  The train had passed through the north gate in the crernellated—medieval wall that had once surrounded the ancient city, and was heading out into the wheat fields of the countryside.

  “How do you two know one another?” asked Charlotte once Peter had taken a seat. “Do you live in New York as well, Peter?”

  “Cleveland, originally. I live in London now, but I’m in New York a lot; my publisher’s American.”

  Charlotte wondered how long it had taken for the broad vowels of the Midwest to be transformed into phony old Etonian.

  “I know Marsha through the British Library. We’ve both done a lot of research there, in the Stein Collection.” He turned to Marsha. “Fiona and I are moving. I’ll have to give you our new address.”

  “Oh,” said Marsha. “You’re not going to be in Putney anymore?”

  “No,” he said. “Hampstead. A little house overlooking the heath.” His voice carried more than a hint of pride.

  Charlotte knew enough about London to recognize that moving from Putney to even a little house overlooking the heath in Hampstead was not a step down. The former home of D. H. Lawrence and John Keats, Hampstead was a kind of Valhalla for ambitious literary types.

  Taking a couple of business cards out of his wallet, Peter passed one to Marsha and another to Charlotte. “You’ll have to visit us at our new digs next time you’re in London, Marsha,” he said. “On the weekends, though, we go to Kent—to the country estate of Fiona’s parents, Lord and Lady Waverley-Smythe.”

  He said the names as if he expected Charlotte and Marsha to know who they were, forgetting that he was talking to Americans. Charlotte’s only association with the name Waverley was an apartment house on Central Park West where an acquaintance had once had a duplex.

  “Of course, we’d love to have you visit us in Kent as well,” he added. “Sometimes it’s nice to get out of the city. They have plenty of room; it’s quite a good-sized place.”

  Of course it was; otherwise he wouldn’t have mentioned it.

  “Thank you, I’d love to,” said Marsha, taking the card.

  “That goes for you as well, Miss Graham,” he said.

  “Thank you. Would anyone like some tea?” she asked, tempted by the lidded teacups and thermos of hot water on the fold-down table.

  “I have something better,” said Marsha. After fumbling around in her carry-on bag on the upper berth, she produced a couple of bars of Swiss chocolate, a can of salted cashews, and—miracle of miracles—a nice bottle of white wine and three wineglasses—glass, not plastic.

  “Marsha, you’re amazing,” said Charlotte, leaning over to hug her stepdaughter. “What a wonderful idea!”

  Marsha bent down to look out the window. “Have we crossed the Wei yet?”

  “It’s coming up,” said Peter.

  “The Wei?” asked Charlotte.

  “The River Wei,” Marsha explained. “In ancient times, it was the setting-off point for the Silk Road. It was customary when starting out on the Silk Road to have a party. The departing travelers would be feted at the inns on the river banks by friends and relatives, but I think this will do instead.”

  “It will do very well indeed,” said Charlotte.

  “I’ve dreamed of this moment for years,” Marsha said as she removed the cork with a corkscrew that she also produced from her carry-on bag. Leave it to Marsha to think of everything, Charlotte thought.

  “Haven’t you been out here before, then?” asked Peter.

  Marsha shook her head. “To China several times, but never beyond Xian. The Silk Road has always been closed to foreign travel.”

  Peter nodded.

  “I gather you’ve been to China many times before as well, Mr. Hamilton?” Charlotte inquired.

  “Peter, please. This is my fourth trip. Second trip to Dunhuang. I was here last year for three months.”

  “Peter recouped the entire cost of his first trip to China from the sale of antiques he bought here,” said Marsha.

  “Really?” said Charlotte.

  “Actually, I could have financed a dozen trips to China with what I made on that first one. The government has since cracked down, but until a few years ago you could still buy Chinese antiques for a song. I made fifty thousand pounds—that’s pounds, not dollars—alone on a pair of porcelain soup tureens that I sold to a Madison Avenue gallery. Now you can’t take anything older than a hundred and twenty years out of the country.”

  “Do they check?” asked Charlotte.

  “Very closely. You can only buy items that are marked with a special seal, and you need a special customs declaration form. You can buy things on the black market of course, but I wouldn’t risk it. Unfortunately, the easy money in antiques is a thing of the past. Now I have to pay for these trips out of what I make on royalties, which, if you know anything about publishing, isn’t much.” He looked out the window. “Here’s the Wei,” he said.

  Turning toward the window, Charlotte saw a shallow, muddy stream winding through the wheat fields on the outskirts of the city.

  “I have something else for us too,” said Marsha, getting up again to reach into her carry-on bag. From the bag, she removed two circles of willow that had been made by bending a leafy twig into a round shape and fastening it. She handed one across the table to Charlotte.

  “What is it?” Charlotte asked, turning it over in her hands.

  “It was customary for friends and relatives of travelers departing on the Silk Road to break off a twig from the willows growing on the banks of the Wei and bend it into a circle as a prayer for their safe return,” Marsha explained. “And, since we have no relatives or friends to see us off …”

  “You made the willow circles!” said Charlotte.

  “That’s very nice. I can use that in my book,” said Peter. Removing a little notebook from his breast pocket, he made a notation. “When in China,” he said, “it always helps to travel with an authority on Chinese history.” He smiled at Marsha. “Preferably one who’s a romantic.”

  “The willow token is the subject of a poem from the Tang dynasty,” said Marsha. She recited the poem: ‘The traveler’s willow tokens are fresh and green. Could I offer you a toast? For you’re departing toward the setting sun, and soon you’ll be a part of the past.’ It’s by my favorite poet, Wang Wei.”

  Charlotte looked out at the swaying willows lining the banks of the yellow river, the edges of their gray-green leaves tinted gold by the afternoon sun. She raised her glass. “I’ll drink to our departure toward the setting sun. But not to our being a part of the past.”

  Reaching across the table, Marsha and Charlotte exchanged toasts first with one another, and then with Peter.

  “Also to a faithful and trustworthy friend,” said Charlotte, who had told Marsha about the reading from the I Ching.

  “Who will be of much value to you on the trip,” added Marsha.

  “Gan bei,” said Peter, using the Chinese expression for “Bottoms up.”

  They went to the dining car shortly afterward for an early dinner. On the way, they looked in on Victor. He was sleeping soundly, and they decided not to disturb him. Charlotte had already learned not to expect great cuisine in China. Meals they’d eaten in the big cities had been all right, but she’d been told that the farther out you got, the worse the food became, and the meal on the train confirmed that observat
ion. The main dish was a stew consisting mostly of mutton fat, which was served over watery rice. Unappealing to begin with, it was served on grease-coated plates by waiters whose aprons were black with soot. The only thing that kept dining in China from being a complete disaster was the wide array of dishes that were served at each meal. By virtue of the sheer variety, you could usually manage to find something halfway decent to eat. Charlotte usually ended up with rice and green beans in garlic sauce, with fruit, usually an apple, for dessert. It was a diet that must have agreed with her: in the absence of liquor, cookies, potato chips, and the other dietary unpardonables that she was accustomed to, she was feeling better than she had in some time.

  They had just been served when they were joined by their missing fourth, a young American named Lisa Gorman. Although she wasn’t pretty, her features were intriguing: a dark, elongated face that seemed to have been pieced together out of planes that intersected at various angles, with a long neck that was accentuated by dangling earrings. In the course of introductions, she apologized for not making herself known to them sooner, and explained that she had been sitting with her two traveling companions. She had a strong New Jersey accent whose tough overtones seemed to match her angular face and lanky, muscular build.

  “And what brings you to this part of China?” asked Peter, as he helped himself to another serving of the mutton stew, his digestive system obviously being in better shape than Charlotte’s. “Sightseeing?”

  “Not exactly,” said Lisa. “I’m the gofer for a tri-national paleontological expedition that’s traveling to Dunhuang.”

  Peter looked up in surprise. “I knew that Dunhuang is known for its Buddhist art, but I wasn’t aware that it’s known for its dinosaur fossils.”

  “Actually, the two go together, as incongruous as it may sound. The same kind of sandstone that’s ideal for building cave temples also makes good fossil hunting grounds. Dinosaur fossils have been found in conjunction with cave temples at several sites in China.”

  “Have you found dinosaur fossils at Dunhuang, then?” asked Peter.

  “Not yet. But we hope to find some there, enough to justify a full-scale expedition later on. We’d better find some fossils; otherwise we’re apt to run into trouble getting financial backing. It doesn’t have to be the world’s greatest discovery, but it should be something.”

  “Then you’re an advance team of sorts,” said Peter.

  “Exactly. The purpose of our trip is to negotiate a formal agreement with the Chinese—specifically, the Institute of Vertebrate Paleontology in Beijing, who are our Chinese hosts; to scope out the lay of the land; and to work out the logistics for next year’s expedition.”

  Peter chewed his stew thoughtfully. “Wasn’t there an American explorer who made a paleontological expedition to China in the twenties?” he asked.

  “Roy Chapman Andrews,” nodded Lisa, earrings bobbing. “He’s mostly known for his discovery of nests of dinosaur eggs, but he made a lot of other important discoveries too. We consider our expedition a successor to his. Ours will be the first American team to visit China since his last expedition in 1925.”

  Though Andrews’ exploits had taken place when Charlotte was still a child, she remembered them well. Until he’d come along, no one had known how dinosaurs reproduced. His discovery of their eggs, some with unhatched baby dinosaurs inside, launched a mania for prehistoric reptiles that continued down to this day.

  “Have you seen the nests of dinosaur eggs on display at the American Museum of Natural History?” Lisa asked.

  Peter nodded.

  “Those are Roy Chapman Andrews’—or RCA, as he’s fondly known in paleontological circles—eggs,” said Lisa. She stopped to take her first bite of the stew. “Yuck,” she said, setting down her chopsticks.

  “I agree,” said Charlotte. “Here, try the green beans,” she suggested, passing her the serving platter. “They’re not bad.”

  “Thanks. RCA made his discoveries in Inner Mongolia, several hundred miles to the north,” Lisa continued as she helped herself to the beans. “But that area’s been picked over pretty well: Mongolian expeditions, Soviet expeditions, Polish expeditions. We thought we might do better in virgin territory.”

  “What makes you think you’ll find fossils in Dunhuang?” asked Peter. He gestured with his chopsticks at the platter of mutton stew. “Would anyone else like more of this?” he asked.

  They declined, and he polished it off.

  “Several things,” Lisa replied. “First, Central Asia is rich in fossil deposits in general; it was never covered by the ocean as were Europe and America. Second, the rock formations there are similar to the Barun Goyot Formation in Inner Mongolia, where RCA made his discoveries.”

  “Where is your group from?” asked Peter.

  “Well, the sponsor is the Museum of the Rockies in Bozeman, Montana. That’s where I work. I’m the assistant to Bert Rogers, the field leader. You may have heard of him; he’s a well-known paleontologist. But the team is multi-institutional; we also have people from Yale and the Carnegie Museum.”

  “Will you be staying in the town of Dunhuang?” asked Marsha.

  “No,” she replied, as she nibbled on the beans. “We’ll be staying at a guest house at the Dunhuang Research Academy. I understand it’s about fifteen miles south of the town, which is farther out into the desert and therefore closer to the fossil beds. If there are fossil beds,” she added.

  “That’s where we’re staying too,” said Marsha. “I hear that it’s, quote, primitive but charming. Peter’s already been there for a few weeks. Do you agree with that assessment, Peter?”

  “It’s very nice, actually,” he said. “I think you’ll like it. The food is very good too. A lot better than this.” He smiled mischievously. “You’ll have to try the local specialties.”

  “What are they?” asked Lisa.

  “Camel palm, donkey penis, and stuffed sheep entrails.”

  Charlotte arched an eyebrow.

  “Yuck,” said Lisa again.

  After dinner, Charlotte, Marsha, and Peter returned to their compartment, while Lisa went in search of her companions. As the day wore on, the temperature had climbed, and their compartment was now stifling hot. Though they had switched on their compartment’s little electric fan, it wasn’t providing much relief. Opening the windows helped some, however, and, after opening those in their own compartment, they went out into the corridor to open the windows there for cross ventilation. Afterward, Charlotte understood why the waiters’ aprons had been black: the corridor was swirling with dusty, sooty air. Traveling by modern antique had its drawbacks as well as its charms.

  With their compartment aired out, they settled in for the evening. Soothed by the rocking of the train and the monotonous scenery, Charlotte was just beginning to fall asleep when she was awakened by Lisa’s appearance at the door. Behind her stood a man holding a tray on which stood a pitcher of beer and several glasses. In his cowboy boots, Stetson hat, and Western-style shirt, he looked like an extra for a Hollywood Western, of the good guy variety. Short, paunchy, and bandy-legged, he had a grin that stretched from here to Texas, and the dimples to go along with it. His appearance was so incongruous that a service worker (as any Chinese with a menial job was called) who had been mopping the floor stopped in mid-motion to gape in fascination.

  “What’s the matter with him?” said their visitor. “Ain’t he ever seen a pissant walkin’ around with a potato chip on its head before?” With that, he laughed heartily and held the tray out to Lisa. “Lisa told us there might be a party goin’ on in this here compartment, so we thought we’d bring along a little pijiu,” he said. “We hope you don’t mind our joinin’ you.”

  Pijiu was Chinese for beer, the beverage of choice in a country where the only other widely available beverages were a sickly sweet orange soda and hot water for tea. Fortunately it was a very low-alcohol beer—what people in the Midwest call near beer—which meant that you could drink a lot
of it before you felt its effects.

  “Not at all,” said Marsha, sliding over to make room on the seat.

  “I’d like you to meet Dogie O’Dea,” said Lisa. “Dogie’s a member of my team. He’s considered one of the world’s greatest dinosaur hunters. Dogie knows fossil-bearing rock the way other people know horses or dogs.”

  “I’m pretty damn good at horses too,” he said.

  “What constitutes being considered a great dinosaur hunter?” asked Peter as Lisa set the tray down on the fold-down table.

  “It’s a certain knack,” she replied. “Some people will have a terrific fossil right under their noses and they won’t even see it. Others—like Dogie—seem to be able to sniff ’em out. I kid him that that’s why he’s nicknamed Dogie—because of his ability to sniff out old bones.”

  “It isn’t?” asked Charlotte.

  “It’s a nickname from my cowpunchin’ days,” he explained. “I guess I got it ’cause I’m as stubborn as one. To say nothin’ of bein’ as ugly as one.” He laughed again, a jolly, good-natured laugh.

  “As stubborn as a dog?” said Marsha.

  “Dogie, I think you’ll have to explain,” said the tall, dark man who had appeared at the door behind him. Like Dogie, he was dressed in jeans and a Western shirt. “These are cultured ladies from back East, who aren’t familiar with our quaint frontier ways.”

  “As in ‘Git Along, Little Dogies,’” Charlotte explained.

  “Whoopee, ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,” yelped Dogie in the refrain from the old cowboy song.

  “How colorful,” teased Marsha. “Are you going to jingle your spurs?”

  Dogie lifted up a boot-shod foot and checked the heel. “No spurs today, ma’am. But if you wait until we get to Dunhuang, howsoever, I might be able to rustle you up a camel patty or two.”

  “And this is my boss, Bert Rogers,” said Lisa, nodding at the other man.

  He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark, wavy hair, a thick beard, and warm blue eyes. He reminded Charlotte of one of her favorite leading men, whose most appealing quality had been his aura of security. Leaning up against his chest had been like leaning up against a hundred-year-old oak.